


Post-Modern Periannath

by Mercurie



Category: Historical RPF, Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: 5000-10000 Words, Action/Adventure, Dreams, Gen, My First Fanfic, Purple Prose, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-04
Updated: 2003-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:25:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercurie/pseuds/Mercurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young JRR Tolkien finds the Red Book of Westmarch, the basis for his Lord of the Rings novels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams in a Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> As the tags indicate: this was my very first fanfic, so _caveat lector_. I haven't even reread it. Too scared. D:

_The last shining rays of the sun hallow the little cabin with a soft, fleecy mantle of gold. The air, suffused with sparkling motes of light, hums with the thick, lazy peace of maple syrup, each minute like a drop of sweetness. No ripples disturb the glassy stillness pooling in the darkening corners of this forgotten niche of the world. Shadows cast by the pale picket fence in the westering sun stand as silent sentinels, guarding the tranquility that is brown as the earth itself. An old, weathered boulder rests in the grass at one end of the garden. He is the master: grand and majestic, benevolent and kind, like an old emperor who has ruled so long that he and his subjects have become fused into one will. The sternness of his beaten brow reflects ages of experience, deep wells of wisdom._

Next to the boulder sits one who might be stone himself. His face is as craggy and expressionless as that of the old emperor of the garden. His hair might be moss, or a strange, hardy grass that clings tenaciously to even the hardest rock. As still as the silence around him, the young man is a part of the garden even as the grass, the shadows, and the light are. He sees not the shy blossoms suspended motionless in the verge; he sees not the jeweled gleams of light on the loch in the valley; he sees not the music of the gentle turf, nor the laughter of the rolling hills. He is all these things.

As the sun finally set behind the ridge, the spell broke. The young man started, and shook himself back to the present. He stood, legs creaking with reluctance, as the silence faded and ordinary night noises began to hold sway. Only a light rustling wind and the chirp of a solitary cricket heralded the darkness. With a last look at the now deep blue loch, far down the hillside, the young man turned back to his cabin.

Inside, a fire burned cheerily in the small stove, and a tea kettle whistled softly, like the hoot of an owl. The man wrapped his hand in a towel and lifted the kettle from the stove, careful not to burn his hand. The warmth penetrated through almost immediately, but it was a pleasant feeling, like that of waking up late on a rainy day and seeing a gray blanket enveloping the world. The loudest sound in the room was that of the hot water being poured into an expectant tea cup. Steam curled up, making strange twisted shapes that teased the imagination. The young man smiled. "A ship with three masts," he said, and took a sip of his tea.

He had come here, to this secluded cabin in the highlands of Scotland, to experience the silence. Having grown weary of the bustle of cities, of the harsh catcalls and screeches of modern life, he had followed his animal instinct, and it had led him here, to the falcon's nest in the rocky crags. Cynical and disillusioned, he fled from the sophistication and egotism of the world back to the timeless, all-knowing and overwhelming bosom of nature. Perhaps the bubble of hidden streams in the moors would soothe away the pangs of radio babble and automobile engines; perhaps the deep loch would swallow the memories of friends dead, friends sacrificed to the bang and clatter of war.

He took another sip of tea. It burned his tongue. He grimaced, and turned on the radio. There was a news report on a local scandal playing. He turned it off, and set the teacup down. Outside, the crickets chirped their song as they always have, oblivious to the world of men.

The air in the room was heavy and hot. Sleep pressed on the young man's eyelids. Sleep wrestled him to the ground like a gladiator in the arena. The smoky smell of burning wood irritated his eyes, and it was soothing to close them. He could see the glow of the fire behind his eyelids. It reminded him of the setting sun. His head nodded once, twice, and dropped to his breast.

Even through the bleary haze of the dream, he could hear the crickets chirping. He knew it was a dream from the beginning, because of the fire. It was the radio that was burning now. It burnt without heat, and he was not alarmed. He could smell it, but the smell was distant, and unimportant. He watched as the metal melted, the fine, complicated wires inside turning to liquid and oozing in strange patterns across the table. He watched, and made no move.

"What do you want?"

He turned around.

She was brilliant, shining and white like the moon. Her hair flowed down her back in a golden waterfall. Her eyes were clear and deep as the loch, deeper, older . . . her voice was the merry tinkling of bells, the solemn hymn of a funeral, the fierce cry of a hawk.

"What do you want?"

He could not speak.

"What do you want, John?"

The sound of his own name freed his tongue.

"I . . ." He did not know. "Who are you?" he asked instead.

She smiled at him, sadly and gaily at once.

"You know who I am."

He wanted to laugh and weep at the sound of her voice. But he did not know.

"No," he said, "I do not."

"I will show you."

She raised her hand.

"Don't go!" he cried.

But she was gone.

"Don't go!" he cried again, his voice anguished. "Don't go!"

With a start, he awoke. He was standing in the doorway of the cabin, facing the night. The pale light of the moon covered the world in a mysterious holiness. The moon. The lady. He stepped out into the night.


	2. Meeting with Strangers

There was a dragon in the garden.

John snapped stiff and erect, like a soldier at attention. His hands balled to quivering fists at his side; his jaw was locked and his eyes flashed. Adrenaline flooded his veins. He was a grim man, tempered in the fire of the world and sharpened by its grindstone. He did not run.

But it was only the boulder. The shadows of night had played a childish trick. In the moonlight, the old boulder looked vaguely like a crouching reptile, each tiny crevice etched with dark until it resembled a scale. John slowly unclenched his hands. His brow furrowed, and he looked puzzled. Abruptly, he rubbed his face.

"It was only a dream." he said aloud, "Only a dream."

He did not go back into the cabin. The moonlight drew him on, and he followed like a man under a spell.

A pale path had been laid out. The silver orb in the heavens had cast a meandering, uncertain ribbon of light. To either side lay darkness, but the moon path led faintly on, away from the valley and up into the high, wild hills. John's feet found the illuminated track of their own accord. He did not resist them, but followed where the moon led with curiousity.

"This is certainly odd." he said to himself, "Perhaps I am dreaming still?" He laughed then, and a pleasant laugh it was, not grim or stone-like at all. There was no fear in his heart, only child-like wonder.

Many miles the bright path must have led him, but the distance, like the time, faded and held no meaning. He was as one in a trance, like one new- born and innocent, trusting to the forces that led him. The moon rode high in the night sky, beckoning ever on with the memory of the white Lady.

"I will show you." She had said.

"Show me what?" John mused aloud, "Who are you?"

"I will show you."

The moon had traveled far across the sky. It set gently, returning to whence it came and leaving the fading stars to give light until the sun should rise. The white moon path had vanished. John stopped, and stood still. His thoughts had fled with the moon; he stood mute and dumb. A numbing tiredness settled over him. A vague warmth traveled up his body, suffusing his mind like a draught of liquor. Without thought of where he was or why, he cast himself into the heath, and slept the deep sleep of oblivion.

John awoke with a sneeze. The early sun rays had tickled his nose, and this first rude visitor was soon followed by another. Brushing stray leaves of grass from his hair, he sat up and shivered. Dew had drenched his thin shirt. He was pale and uncertain with cold. Rubbing his arms vigorously, he stood up and looked around.

The beauty of a Scottish sunrise did nothing to alleviate his dismay. He was on the side of a high hill, rocky and covered with turf. Below him was a small valley that twisted on between the hills out of sight. There was a stream somewhere nearby, a merry gurgling giving its presence away. Nothing about the place distinguished it from any other hill in the vast highlands. John turned about in a circle. He raised his arms, then let them drop in exasperation.

"And what now, O White Lady?" he whispered, "Where have you and your moonlit spectres led me?" Searching his pockets, he found to his great trepidation that he had left the cabin with nothing - not even a pocket handkerchief! Where was he? Where had his night venture led him? He rubbed his head. And why? He could not remember drinking anything besides tea. What foolish whim had prompted him to wander off into the wilderness without the slightest provision, when no one even knew where his cabin was?

What a fool he was!

"All this for a dream?" he cried irritably to the hills, "I'm lost, confound it!"

"Lost?" spoke a cheerful voice behind him, "Well, that's all dependin' on what you were lookin' for!"

John leaped about with surprise. What he saw only made him gape and stare all the more. There in front of him stood a man - if a man it was. The person meeting his eyes could not have been more than four feet tall! He was smiling and seemed young, his cheeks round and red and his hair a curly brown. He wore no shoes, but his feet were large and covered with hair much like that on his head. He wore short trousers held up with suspenders, a spotless white shirt, and a homely brown cloak. His broad, smiling face was pleasant and would not have been out of place in this country of shepherds had it been on a person several feet taller.

"And if you don't mind me askin', Master Stranger," the little man said jovially, "What exactly are you doing here? It's not often we see the Big Folk anymore. I wouldna even have stopped to chat with you, except you do look rather cold and lost."

If John had forgotten the cold in light of this new arrival, he was no less lost. His mouth hung open, and the only reply he could muster was a confused squeak.

The little man's face changed. He looked kindly and concerned. "You do seem to be needin' some help," he said, speaking slowly and with exaggerated pronunciation, as if to a not-too-bright child, "How did you get out here, now?"

John finally recovered himself from his surprise.

"I . . . I followed a dream," he said, blushing. He groaned inwardly. This person already thought him slow; what impression would such a silly story make?

But the little man did not seem at all skeptical. He looked seriously at John, "A dream, eh? P'raps you're not so lost after all, then. What's your name?"

"John. John Tolkien." John replied, staring with great interest now at the his diminutive acquaintance.

The half-sized man smiled, "My name is Samwise Gamgee." he said, "And heartily pleased to meet you, I am."


	3. Homes on a Hill

John breathed deep draughts of the cool highland air. The pristine freedom around him rose to his head, flowed in his veins like drafts of mead. He wanted to laugh, laugh from the sheer joy of living and the beauty that is life. All around him was green, vibrant, and tenacious. The smiling verge was a fanfare of trumpets, joyous and defiant with intoxicated spirit.

John stood at the head of a small valley, hidden in the rolling hills. Shadows lay long at the end of the day, but the vegetation was lush and bright, small flowers nestled in the grass like gems, and small trees lined the ridge like merry sentinels. The quaint country road he stood on meandered lightly down the valley, branching off into smaller paths that led to little round doors in the hillside, before tripping, ever on and on, up the far side and finally disappearing from sight. But it was not the scenery nor the road that held John spellbound with wonder.

Each of the little doors was set in the middle of a roundish bump protruding from the hill. And each was surrounded by a yard encircled by a short fence. A few had signs hanging from the gate. John could only make out the closest one; it read "The Bracegirdles, and Welcome!" Some of the yards had carts standing in them; many had a woodpile; one contained a small dog that barked furiously at the intruders. And there were people, little people like Sam! Children ran laughing through the tall grass, women over their fences talking, and a farmer trudged along the road with his cart.

"Aye, it's an eye-opener, and no mistake!" chuckled Samwise proudly at his side, "And no where in this wide world is dearer to me."

"It's wonderful!" John said with a smile, "But I have so many questions.."

"Well then you can ask all you like, after you've come inside and had a good morsel of food in you, and a pipe as well!" Sam said cheerfully, "Follow me!"

John followed Sam down the road in a wondering silence. On the journey here, his diminutive friend had told him about this place, which he called "Holbytlanna", in the land of the "Shire," the home of the Hobbits. John had not disbelieved, but the true meaning of Sam's words had not hit him until now. This was a settlement . . . a settlement of non-humans! They were people, but not men; they were something else, something men had never dreamed of

And they were regarding him as curiously as he them. As John and Sam walked through the town, heads turned and mouths dropped. Apparently a "big person" such as himself was not an everyday occurrence. Three little children ran to the side of the road and stopped, staring unabashedly at the newcomers.

"It's one of the Big People!" one whispered, awestruck, to his friend. John grinned a little. It was almost flattering, in a way, to be paid so much attention. The looks on the Hobbits' faces were so comical.

Sam stopped in front of a particularly large and well-kept blue door.

"Welcome," he said, opening the door, "To the humble home of the Gamgees, the abode of Meriadoc Gamgee, Mayor of Holbytlanna!"

Ducking down, John stepped inside, finding himself in the spacious entryway of a very luxurious Hobbit hole. Almost before he was fully inside, he was nearly bowled over by a miniature whirlwind! The squealing, laughing, brown- haired wisp of a Hobbit-maid blew right past him without a glance, hurling itself into the arms of Sam.

"Oh, Sam!" exclaimed the girl, "You're back! And you left without even telling me you were leaving! A whole day! A whole day and I didn't know where you were! How could you, Sam? Without even telling me! As if you didn't know that I would be worried, and wondering 'til I could hardly bear it not knowing where you were! Would't have been too much to ask for a note, just a little poem perhaps, to say you were going out for the day? And leaving me here! Why, why should you be out having adventures and meeting . . . meeting Big People," here she looked emphatically at John, "Without invitin' me and all! Now that's harsh, Sam, that's harsh!"

"Elanor!" muttered Sam, embarrassed, "You needn't make such a scene! It's not as bad as all that!"

"Oh, Sam!" Elanor said plaintively.

"No, no! Come on, I want you to meet my friend! This is Master John Tolkien." Sam turned to John, "And this is my sister, Elanor Gamgee."

"Pleased to make the acquaintance." John said, stooping down to look Elanor in the eye, "Of the loveliest little Hobbit girl in Holbytlanna!"

Elanor blushed. "Oh, now, you mustn't!" she tittered, "I'm very happy to meet you, Master John. Would you like some tea, or some cake perhaps?"

Not having eaten for a day or more, John acquiesced gladly.

Soon John and Sam were seated at a small kitchen table, liberally supplied with tea, seedcake, tarts, chicken salad, cheese, mince pie, pickles, and various other articles of food. Elanor had disappeared further into the Hobbit hole to find her father, Mayor Gamgee, and inform him of the new arrivals.

"Sam," John began slowly, "I've been wanting to ask you . . . things, but what with one thing and another, we haven't had time, and I hardly know even now that this isn't a dream and a hallucination and that I'm not just a madman!"

"Well, it certainly's not a dream, you can't get cake like this in dreams!" Sam said, helping himself to a generous portion of seedcake.

"But . . . where is this place? Who exactly are you? How long have you been here? Why don't we humans know about you?" John paused, "And why am I here?" He finished quietly.

Sam stopped eating and looked at him. "I think the best person to answer those questions for you is my father, the Mayor. As for the last, you know better than I."

John looked down at his plate and said nothing. Sam, too, remained quiet. Finally the silence was broken by the reappearance of Elanor, bringing with her the Mayor. John stood up, promptly banging his head on the lamp hanging from the ceiling.

"Ah . . ." he said, rubbing his head, "Um, good day to you, Master Mayor."

The Mayor chuckled. "The same to you, visitor, and welcome! But please, call me Meriadoc, or just Merry."

Merry Gamgee was older than Sam and Elanor, but not an old man. His hair was still curly and thick, lightly streaked with gray, and his eyes twinkled merrily, as befit his name. He had a mouth quick to smile, but his face was engraved with lines of wisdom as well as those of amusement.

"Father," Elanor said happily, "This is Master John Tolkien. He's a Big Person, from the Other Lands! Can you believe it?"

"Of course I can!" Merry Gamgee said, "It's plain to see what he is. Now, Master John, would you care to come into the sitting room and recount your tale? We haven't had a good story in quite some time!"

"I'd be glad to," John said, "And maybe afterwards you could answer a few questions for me."

"I'll certainly do my best." Merry said, looking intently at John. Somehow John got the feeling that the shrewd little man already had some idea of what John meant to ask.

Thirty minutes later, John found himself seated in a spacious sitting room, with a whole crowd of Hobbits crowded around him, eagerly listening to his tale.

"Well," he began thoughtfully, "I suppose it began with my coming here, to Scotland and the cabin . . ."

John soon lost his initial shyness, confiding in his listeners his fears and hopes without restraint. The Hobbits were very good story-listeners; they exclaimed, gasped, and fell silent at all the right places. They listened attentively as he told of his dream of the White Lady, murmured during his tale of the night journey, and laughed at his meeting with Sam.

" . . . And now, here I am telling the story." John finished some time later.

"Why, it's an adventure indeed!" Elanor exclaimed, "What a lucky man you are! Sam and I are always looking for adventure, but we've never come across one as grand as that!" An elderly Hobbit woman who had been introduced to John as Mayor Gamgee's wife hushed her, and all eyes returned to John.

"It is truly a grand tale, and an odd one at that." Merry Gamgee said.

"Yes, and there is much that I would like to know." said John, determined now to procure some answers to his many questions. "Who are you, the Hobbits as you call yourselves, and where is this place? Why have no men found it before?"

Merry sighed. "We are, as you know already, the Hobbit people. More than that, I can hardly say, except that we are as old as Men themselves, and have always lived quietly hereabouts, in the Northwest of Arda, the Earth. This place is not open to all; it is not meant to be found. The Shire is not quite in the world as other places are. Usually men pass right through it without seeing. To their eyes this is only a small valley, beautiful but not different from many others in this land. We are hidden from the eyes of the world, and year by year our land drifts further from the outside."

"But then . . . how is it that I have come here?" John asked softly, "And why?"

"These two questions are undoubtedly closely related," Merry answered, "But alas, I cannot answer them for you. When Sam found you, you were already within the marches of the Shire. You should not even have seen him, nor heard him when he spoke, nor even come to close to our little town. All I know is, there is a purpose to your coming here. What that is, I do not know."

John looked down at the floor, thinking. "And who," he asked, looking at Merry, "Who is the White Lady that I dreamed of?"

"From what you tell of her I would say she was an Elf, or an echo of one anyway." Merry replied.

"An Elf? Do they live here as well?" John asked eagerly, "Is she here?"

"No." Merry said gravely, "The Elves passed from this Earth many years ago. They left us and returned to their home, the Undying Lands of Eldamar and the Lonely Isle. But the land remembers them, and they it. Perhaps what you saw was an echo of their presence, or perhaps it was truly an Elf Lady visiting you from beyond the world."

"She led me here." John said, "It is she who must tell me what my purpose is."

Merry regarded him earnestly. "Maybe so, my friend. Maybe so."

Hours later, John lay in a bed that was too short for him. Unanswered questions plagued him, but stronger than these were the desire and need for sleep. Exhausted, his eyes closed and he fell into a dream.

Once again, he knew it was a dream the moment it began. He stood outside, on the road in Holbytlanna, and it was night. Before him stood the White Elf Lady.

"Who are you?" he whispered, "What is your name?"

Her sad eyes watched him.

"I am Galadriel."

Galadriel.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"Do you like it?"

John hesitated. "I love this place," he said, "It is like a dream of childhood, and innocence, and happiness."

Galadriel turned from him and looked up at the round door of the Gamgee Hobbit hole.

"I too," she said, "Love this place, and these people."

She came close to John, and stood beside him.

"My people are gone." Galadriel said, "And soon, too, will the Hobbits be gone."

"No!" John jerked, "But men could learn from them, could be reminded of life and . . . and innocence and purity. If they leave us . . . leave me . . ."

Galadriel sighed. "This world is no longer their place. They are too kind and jolly." She smiled wistfully, "But men could benefit indeed from their wisdom."

John was silent.

"What must I do?" he said finally.

Galadriel stepped back from him, suddenly bathed in white light.

"Tell the story." she said, and was gone.

John found himself in a room indoors, a small room in a Hobbit hole. It had a window, and moonlight shone in. On a table in the middle of the room rested a large red book. He could not take his eyes from it. It held meaning and significance beyond words.

"Tell the story . . ." Galadriel's voice whispered in his mind.

He awoke to the sunlight of the morning.


	4. The Sun and the Storm

The last rays of the sun fell on John's face. He sat with Sam on the doorstep of the hobbit-hole (or smial, as he had learned it was called), watching the sun set in the west. He had spent the day with Sam and Elanor, meeting countless cheery Hobbits who lived in the hills nearby. Perhaps his questions had not all been answered, but it seemed to matter little. Already the human world was fading, replaced by the tranquility and large meals of Holbytlanna. In a shorter time than he had thought possible, the hard young man had come to love this place of gentleness and laughter. He squinted into the bronze sunlight.

"But always the sun must set." he murmured to himself.

"True enough," Sam answered, and John started, unaware that he had spoken aloud, "But at least it sets in the West, in the Undying Lands, and also rises again the next day."

"The Undying Lands?" John asked, "Tell me about these lands, Sam." He grinned. "I've told you more about myself than I thought I knew. It's only fair that you return the favor with some stories of your own!"

"Well now, if you're interested in the history of the Shire and its people, we can satisfy your curiosity easily enough! But I'm not the right person to tell it. Not a poet am I, not Sam Gamgee! No, we'll have to find my father." With that, Sam jumped up and ran into the smial, beckoning John to follow. John followed eagerly - too eagerly, it turned out, as he immediately hit his head on the chandelier in the entry room.

"Oooh!" he yelped, rubbing his forehead and biting back some rather shocking curses. "Sam, wait for me!" The young Hobbit had disappeared down one of the winding tunnels of the smial. John shook his throbbing head and followed, hoping fervently that he was heading in the right direction and not set on a course for, say, Mrs. Gamgee's bathing room or something awkward of that sort.

"Sam?" John called, walking hunched over through a hallway hung with ancient portraits. No answer. He stopped short, wondering if he should go back. Shrugging, he tried the nearest door. It opened into a pantry. John chuckled quietly and tried the next one. It, too, was a pantry. Grinning, John opened a third door, speculating on just how much food one Hobbit family could consume in a year.

This time, however, he was not faced with a pantry. Instead, a dim and mostly empty room met his gaze. Little light came through the one window. The room was old, far older than anything John had encountered in his life - at least, so it seemed to him. There was a tall lamp in the corner and a small table with a stool in front of it in the middle of the room. Despite the room's feel of age, there was no dust on the table. No dust, but something else. Curious, John stepped inside. He tiptoed carefully over to the lamp and lit it, fearing to make any noise and disturb the solemn stillness all around him. Turning, he looked at the table.

It was a book.

A huge, ancient red book lay on the tabletop. It had the look of something both well-loved and well cared for. It was covered in leather, and its pages were of a creamy, thick white paper. Most strikingly, it must have been at least a foot thick, and nearly as large as the table top in dimensions. Drawn by a desire he could not name, John opened the book and began to read.

To his surprise, the book was written not in English or any other language he knew of, but in a tongue completely alien to him and unlike anything he had ever seen or heard. Yet he understood perfectly. The language of the red book might have been his native one, though he did not even know its name.

John read, and as he read, he became more and more spellbound with wonder. Here was a tale that was also a history, a true story so marvelous it was nearly impossible to believe and equally impossible to reject. So the Shire was older than any country in the world today! And he had laughed at its people as kind but simple. His eyes widened in surprise as he came across the name Samwise Gamgee. So his friend bore the name of a hero of days long past! The name must have been passed down through generations, keeping alive the memory. He read of the Hobbits, and smiled. He read of the Ring, and shivered. Ents and Elves and Dwarves and Dragons . . .

A sound at the door broke John's reverie. He looked up, and saw Sam and Mayor Gamgee watching him.

"I see you've found the Red Book of Westmarch." Merry Gamgee said, "That's a good deal of our history, there; the most important part at least." John became aware that the Hobbit was speaking the same language the Red Book was written in. At the same time, he realized that Sam and every other inhabitant of the Shire had spoken nothing but this language, and yet he had understood every word and answered without knowing what he did. Confusion assailed him.

"What . . . ?" he said "Am I dreaming after all?"

"You must be wondering how you came to understand and speak Westron, our language." Merry said, "I've wondered that myself a few times." He shrugged. "The grace of the Valar, perhaps. If you'd like some more satisfactory questions to your answers, perhaps you'd like to come with me to Tuckborough, to discuss these matters with the Thrain and the Master of Brandy Hall. Bring the Red Book, if you like."

John stared down at the book dazedly, then back at the Hobbits. He shook his head, then picked up the book and followed Merry and Sam out the door.

John and the two Hobbits stopped outside as Sam lit a lantern. It had grown dark, and rain clouds had gathered in the East. Thunder rumbled, pompously proclaiming the arrival of a storm. The small trees on the ridge bent in a gusty wind, and John felt goosebumps on his arms. He clutched the Red Book of Westmarch as if afraid that it might blow away.

"Don't worry, it's not far." Sam said as the lantern bloomed with light.

"And a good supper in front of a hot fire waits in Tuckborough!" Merry laughed, "Come, it's but a short walk!"

"No doubt," John said, losing some of his apprehension, "The supper will take longer than the walk!" The two Hobbits laughed, making no denials of the joke, and the three set off down the road to Tuckborough.

The first drops of rain began to fall around them, large and far apart. The wind picked up, blowing against them and rushing through the trees. Clouds hunkered down like a giant at his dinner table. John felt uncomfortably like the dinner. He bowed his head into the wind, following the light of Sam's lantern. A flash of lightning bared the road and the smials at its side in a glaring white light, not at all like the soft radiance surrounding Galadriel in his dreams. John was just wondering whether the weather was some kind of omen, when ahead of him Sam dropped the lantern with a cry.

"Sam!" John called, but the wind whirled his voice away, "Sam, what is it?"

Sam and Merry stood staring at the sky, Sam with his hands raised, surprise showing in every line of his body. The young Hobbit spun around, and John saw that his eyes were wide, though he did not seem afraid.

"The Eagles!" Sam yelled, "The Eagles are coming!"

Uncomprehending, John stared up at the sky. Great birds of prey circled above them, seemingly coming straight out of the storm. They were huge, far larger than a man. Lightning cracked, and their silhouettes stood out starkly against the clouds. First one dove, then another, a third. They dove, talons outstretched, straight for John.

With a cry, John threw himself to the ground, dropping the Red Book. The first huge Eagle passed straight over him. Sam lay panting next to him.

"What are they doing?" John shrieked. Sam merely shook his head.

"I don't know! They're our friends!"

A bird of prey's scream prompted them to hug the ground, as if hoping that the Eagles' keen eyes would fail them in the dark. But this time they were not the target. A huge Eagle swooped down, and with one flick of its talons grasped the Red Book of Westmarch, carrying it away towards the woods.

"No!" John yelled, leaping to his feet. Lightning flashed as he sprinted after the Eagle.

"John, wait!" Sam's agonized cry followed him, but John did not wait. Panting, he ran with all his might, all his thought bent on one thing - retrieving the Red Book. His lungs burned and sweat ran into his eyes. He was hot from running, but the wind chilled him and he shivered as he ran. His eyes were fixed on the small stand of trees on the ridge where the Eagle had disappeared with its prize. A rock turned under his foot, and he nearly fell, then redoubled his efforts, gasping.

Wild-eyed, John burst into the trees, hands clenching as he stared around him. His gaze lit on a large tree where a dark shape hunched upon the lowest branch. Lightning gave enough illumination for John to recognize the Eagle, with the Red Book in its talons.

"Give it back!" he yelled furiously, striding to stand underneath the branch. "Give it back!"

The Eagle regarded him solemnly. John expected it to say something, but it remained silent.

"Well?" he shouted, "Give it back or I'll climb up and get it!"

With a cry, the Eagle launched itself into the air. The Red Book dropped from its grasp. John threw himself forward and barely caught it, panting at the effort. The Eagle was gone.

John stood still, waiting for his heart rate to calm. He hugged the book and hoped that it had not been damaged by the Eagle's talons. What would he say to Merry and Sam? He had nearly lost their most precious family heirloom! Berating himself, John turned slowly and walked back down the slope to where he had left his Hobbit friends.

It had begun to rain harder, and John could only vaguely make out the shape of the hills. He could not see the road. Where was Sam's lantern? He had dropped it, but it should still be burning. He squinted into the rain and stumbled over a sudden dip in the ground. Something was wrong. Where was the road?

John reached the bottom of the ridge and stood still, struck dumb with disbelief. Lightning flashed and confirmed his fears. The road was gone. The doors to the smials were gone. Any sign of civilization was gone. He stood in a narrow valley, untouched and pristine as if no one had ever set foot there.

Thunder rumbled, and the full realization smote him with the force of a cannon. Crying aloud, he cast himself on the ground and wept, as the heavens above poured down the full force of their fury upon him.


	5. The Beginning of the Tale

John stirred. He became aware that he was wet. Not just wet, soaked. He was a human sponge, filled completely with water. Cold water, too. He shivered and sat up.

The sun shone brilliantly, belying the fact that there had been a storm. Water shone on every blade of grass, encrusting the landscape with shimmering diamonds. Emerald green mixed with crystal and a royal blue sky to shame any human creation. A rainbow graced the west. Birds twittered and sang in the trees at the top of the ridge, interweaving their melodies into a glorious natural symphony. The sun was warm and gentle, a mother singing to her earthly child.

There was not a sign of habitation. The valley was untouched, empty of humans or any other race. Every feature, every tree, every curve of every hill was exactly as John remembered it - only without its Hobbit inhabitants. John sighed. He was chilled, inside and out. They had gone. Gone where? West, perhaps. They had gone and left the world to humanity, just like the Elves had gone before them. And he was the only person who knew. What good could he do? Humans would go on with their selfish, arrogant, war-like ways, never knowing or dreaming that there was something else, something more. He remembered Galadriel and his dreams. Why had he been sent here? Only to see something, know it to be unattainable, and watch it taken from him? What was the purpose?

John's gaze fell on the Red Book of Westmarch. It lay on the grass, dry, where it had been protected from the rain by his body. And then he understood. He had been sent to tell the story.

Wearily, John stood, picking up the book. He took one last wistful look at the valley before turning away and trudging back to the world of humans.

Days later, the young man sat at a table in the cabin. He had eaten and changed clothes. No trace of his experience remained upon him, save perhaps an expression on his face or a light in his eyes. The red book lay open on the table, to the side. A blank piece of paper lay before him.

The young man picked up a pen and began to write.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE LORD OF THE RINGS AND THE RETURN OF THE KING

(as seen by the Little People; being memoirs of Bilbo and Frodo of the Shire, supplemented by the accounts of their friends and the learning of the Wise.)

Together with extracts from Books of Lore translated by Bilbo in Rivendell.

Translated by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.


End file.
